The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch
by SeenaC
Summary: This case will provide John with insight into Sherlock's past, and his present.  Rated "T" for subject matter.  Based on one of the original stories.  Caution - multiple discussions about suicide that may be upsetting, please read with discretion.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: So this is my first attempt at a full-blown story. It will be at least a few chapters in length. It's an update of one of the original stories. It shouldn't be very difficult to deduce which one. :-)

Because of how I've placed this story, and what it is going to reveal about Sherlock's past, I am going to have to revise my "First Christmas" story, which comes chronologically after this one. Sorry about that! I'll make the revisions after I finish this story, though. Please tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm not making any money, and I fully acknowledge that this plot has been borrowed reverently from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The characters, of course, are from BBC's "Sherlock."

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch

I have been writing up a few of the cases Sherlock and I have worked on, posting them on my blog. However, this particular case cannot be made public, at least, not any time soon. For one thing, I do not wish to inadvertently tarnish the reputation of the client involved, and for another...I have to respect Sherlock's privacy. I am therefore writing up the case as part of my own personal journal. I am going to record it from start to finish, preserving as many of the details as possible, in case it may become feasible to make it public sometime in the future. At the very least, writing it all out will help me better understand what I have learned about my flatmate and friend.

It all started only a few days ago. Sherlock and I had spent the day at home, kept inside by a late October storm. It rained hard all day, and the winds were unusually fierce. I felt tired and achy, and spent most of the day watching the telly.

Sherlock was working on one of his experiments in the kitchen. It appeared to be a complicated and dangerous one, because any attempt of mine to go into the kitchen was met with stern disapproval. The kitchen table was completely overwhelmed with test tubes, beakers, burners, Sherlock's microscope, and a number of other instruments.

Sometime after 18:00 I heard the sound of breaking glass, followed by a hissing noise and a horrible stench.

"AARGHHH!" came Sherlock's voice from the kitchen.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"YES! DO NOT COME IN HERE!" was the reply.

I heard a flurry of activity followed by squeaking noise from the kitchen table and a groan from Sherlock.

"Sherlock? Have you hurt yourself?"

"NO!" came the irritated response.

The kitchen table squeaked several times more, in a rent-raising tone of voice. I sighed and tried to direct my attention back to the telly. A few minutes later, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen looking as if he was caught between despair and anger.

"Bloody useless lab equipment! What the hell is St. Bart's playing at? Trying to pass off these test tubes as research quality?"

"I don't see how you have much room to complain, as you probably 'liberated' them without permission," I remarked.

He threw me a dark look. "Molly gave them to me. I'll be having a word with her!"

"Sherlock, please don't. Leave the poor girl alone."

"I couldn't if I wanted to. She's far too important to me."

"Sherlock!" I looked at him severely. He rolled his eyes.

"Right. I forgot. It's not nice to use people, even though every single person in the world does it. But it's perfectly fine as long as no one is _honest_ about it." He paused. "In any case, my day's work is ruined." He walked over to one of our windows and looked out. "The rain has stopped, in fact the clouds are gone. The wind has died off as well." He turned to me with a more cheerful attitude. "Let's go out!"

"Are you kidding? It's freezing out there!"

"Come on, do you want to stay here in the flat with nothing for me to do?"

"So you're threatening to punish me with your bad behavior if I don't agree to your plan?"

"You make that sound like it's a bad thing."

"Well, it's not good!"

"We can get some dinner," he said hopefully.

I gave an exasperated sigh. "Fine." I gave him a look that told him he was playing dirty. He just smiled. I was always trying to get him to eat more, how could I possibly refuse his offer to go eat? In retaliation, I took a good while to change clothes and bundle up. I was _not _ going to be miserably cold on Sherlock's account.

"Oh for heaven's sake John, you look like you are going to the North Pole. It's just dinner at Angelo's - five minutes away!"

"Cold John is Grumpy John, so let me be!" came my voice, somewhat muffled from behind Sherlock's favorite scarf which I had snatched, mostly to try and annoy him.

"You. Look. Ridiculous." He sighed. "OK, let's go."

We had dinner at Angelo's by candlelight. I have long since quit trying to convince Angelo and his staff that Sherlock and I are not dating. I suppose walking in with Sherlock's signature scarf wrapped around my face doesn't help disabuse them of the notion any way. The concept doesn't really bother me anymore. Honestly, if anyone should be offended by the notion it should be Sherlock, as I'm sure he could do much better than me, if he wanted a man in his life.

By the time dinner was over I was in a much better mood. It had been my first meal since breakfast, as the kitchen had been off limits to me all day. Sherlock also seemed to be unusually relaxed and happy. I noticed that he ate most of his meal, which had been a large one.

After unsuccessfully attempting to pay Angelo for his food, Sherlock proposed that we take a walk around town for a bit. "I need to process some of this baggage," was his explanation as he patted his stomach.

I was feeling so warm and comfortable that I agreed. However, I still meticulously bundled myself up again. I didn't want to get cold while we rambled around. This time Sherlock just looked amused rather than irritated when I wound his scarf around my face. "You look like a...highway man or something," he smiled.

We left Angelo's and started walking. Sherlock's good humor continued and he became uncharacteristically chatty. He kept leaning over and muttering deductions to me about the people around us. "That man is having an affair with his wife's sister." "That woman has had a death in the family, likely a child." "That man has just lost a good deal of money and is wondering how long he can keep it a secret." Sometimes he explained his deductions, sometimes not. But it made for an amusing evening for both of us.

We were headed back to the flat, it was starting to get late, when Sherlock's phone rang. As his number is on his website, people tend to call at all hours. He merely silences it when he doesn't feel like taking calls. I assume he had left the phone on as he didn't have anything else going on at the time.

I didn't want to eavesdrop so I hurried ahead to the flat to unlock the door. I could hear Sherlock speaking to whomever it was behind me.

I had just finished un-bundling myself and was gathering my courage to peek into the kitchen when Sherlock followed me in. He looked pleased.

"It appears I have a case!"

"Lestrade?"

"No, a private party. He's coming over to fill in some more details and then we may go over to his place. He's quite desperate." Sherlock rubbed his hands together gleefully.

"What's the situation?"

"Well, I prefer to wait and hear the full story in person when he gets here, then you can hear it as well, but it sounds quite intriguing. I hope you will stay up and wait for him with me, and come with me if we do need to go over there. Your help may be invaluable, as he's a doctor and this seems to be a medical case in some respects."

"Sounds great! But if there is already one doctor involved in the case is there need of another?"

"John, you know I depend on you to tell me things as you see them. Of course I need you!"

So we sat down to wait for our doctor in distress.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Apologies in advance for the lack of action in this chapter. But, the distressed doctor has to have a chance to explain why he's asking for help! Next chapter will be much more exciting, I promise! (Of course, all of you who are familiar with the original stories know the basic outline of the plot by now!)

:-)

A huge thank you to those of you who are following the story. Please let me know what you think of it.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 2

Not very long after we began to wait the potential client arrived. We heard a quiet tap on the door and Sherlock hurried downstairs to let him in and bring him up. I heard them introducing themselves downstairs, but I could not quite catch the man's name.

He looked to be a man in his mid-thirties, but very pale, thin, and unhealthy looking. He appeared to be very nervous, with long delicate fingers that rather reminded me of Sherlock's. He even wore a dark suit similar to Sherlock's.

Sherlock introduced me as his colleague and the man shook hands with me saying, "Good evening Dr. Watson, I am Dr. Percy Trevelyan."

I recognized the name.

"Aren't you the psychiatrist who works with Obsessive Compulsive Disorders?" I asked.

He seemed pleased at my recognition. "Yes I am!"

"I have a copy of your book. I found it extremely interesting! Very well done!"

"Well, according to my publisher, you are apparently one of about ten people who bought it! I really appreciate your interest. You are a doctor as well, I assume? Are you a psychiatrist?"

"No, just a retired army doctor, although I took some courses on military psychiatry. It did come in handy in the theatre."

"Well, I've always wanted to specialize in OCD exclusively and that is the indirectly the reason why I have come to consult with you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Very well. I must apologize for imposing on you at this hour, but the recent events at my house have upset me so much that I simply couldn't wait to ask you for your advice and your help, if need be."

"Please have a seat and tell us what has brought you here. Give as many details as you can, no matter how unimportant they may seem."

Sherlock and I sat down in our usual chairs while Dr. Trevelyan sat on the couch.

"Well, I suppose I have to start at the very beginning with my college career. I got my medical degree, and went on to specialize in psychiatry. I was considered to be an extremely promising student, with a bright future ahead of me. But, I am not of a wealthy family and by the time I finished my studies I was deeply in debt and unable to go fulfill any of the dreams I had begun with."

Dr. Trevelyan sighed, then continued, "One day a man came to visit me at the clinic where I was working. A Mr. Blessington, a person I had never met before. He seemed to know who I was, familiar with my work and all the awards I had received. He also seemed to know that I was in need of financial assistance to achieve my objectives. He said that he wanted to invest in me - that he would set me up in a practice, alongside all the other leading psychiatrists in return for a portion of my income as well as personalized medical attention. He claimed to suffer from OCD, as well as having a pulmonary condition. He offered to pay for a comfortable house for the two of us, in addition to leasing practice space for me in any location I desired."

"Well, you can imagine that I was deeply suspicious of his offer at first. I didn't know if he was some sort of pervert, or what his motivations were. He claimed that he was suspicious of bankers and the stock market, and felt that in the long run, I could give him a better return on his investment. We discussed the issue at length, and then I told him I would need some time to think it over."

"I finally decided to take him up on his offer. After all, he was the one providing the money, so even if the whole thing went to pieces I wouldn't stand to lose much. So, as improbable as it seems, I was endowed with a comfortable home and a prestigious practice. In return, I gave him three-quarters of my income. Since my room and board were paid for, the remaining twenty-five percent was plenty as I have no family to support. We share a large comfortable house. I have the ground floor and he keeps to the first floor. We have a housekeeper, but she doesn't live with us, she comes in daily. There was nothing but truth in what Mr. Blessington said about the state of his health. His heart is very weak, leaky valves, but his OCD seemed to be fairly mild, limited to a need to double, sometimes triple check the locks on our windows and doors. So I monitor both conditions for him. He very rarely leaves the house. His stated mistrust of bankers is also supported by his behavior. As near as I can tell, all his money is kept in a safe in his bedroom. And in the course of ten years, I have made him a great deal of money. My practice has been a huge success, if I do say so myself. If only I could get my book to sell!" He stopped and smiled.

"So, that is the history of my situation, but now I need to tell you what made me contact you tonight. A few weeks ago Mr. Blessington came to me in a panic. He was very upset about a burglary he heard about on the news in the West End. He was so upset that he insisted that we put stronger bolts on all our windows and doors. I couldn't understand why he was so frightened, but I agreed. After all, he's the one paying for the house. But that didn't seem to satisfy him, and he remained in a paranoid state for almost a week. He had always refused to take psychotropic drugs for his OCD, but now I encouraged him strongly to consider it. That seemed to panic him even further, to the point where he even refused talk-therapy sessions. I had never held regular sessions with him, as his symptoms up until then had always been so mild, mild enough that I doubt his condition was ever clinical. I had never really encouraged him to take drugs either, until this recent upset. Now, he was vehemently refusing my help! The help for which he had allegedly invested in me! It was a very upsetting situation, and I debated with myself on what to do about it. Gradually, however, his fears seemed to lessen and things slowly went back to how they had been before, so I eventually dismissed the entire episode from my mind."

"However, two days ago I was contacted by a potential patient who wanted my professional help. He said he was an official in a foreign government currently stationed here in London. He wanted to see me, but only under the strictest confidentiality. He stated that he was in severe need of my help, but that if word got out of his condition, he would lose his position. Therefore, he wanted to see me only at my home, and in the evening, as that was the only time when his activities were not monitored by his staff. I accepted the offer, intending on waiving any fee for my services in the name of international diplomacy."

"He came to the house at 18:30 last night. He was an elderly man, very thin, with no particular distinguishing characteristics aside from a thick accent."

"What type of accent?" asked Sherlock.

"I am not sure, I did not want to pry, as his position seemed to be in such jeopardy. I didn't want to cause him to be indiscreet. If I had to guess, I would say Eastern European, maybe."

"Did the accent seem genuine? Or was it possibly faked?" Sherlock asked eagerly. I could tell that he was very interested in the story.

"I doubt they were faking, but I suppose it would be possible," replied Dr. Trevelyan.

"They?" questioned Sherlock sharply, "who else came with the gentleman?"

"Just one other man, very tall and muscular looking. The older gentleman said he was his personal secretary, and completely reliable and discreet."

"And they both spoke with the same accent? You didn't notice any difference between the two?"

Dr. Trevelyan looked a little confused. "No, but I did not speak much with the younger gentleman. I did hear them speak together in a foreign language."

"Ah," Sherlock made a satisfied noise. "But you didn't recognize the language?"

"No."

"Please continue!"

"I had a standard hour's consultation with the gentleman, while the secretary waited outside my study door. Mr. Blessington was out at the time, and never saw them arrive or leave. The consultation was fairly standard, especially since it was our first meeting. The gentleman was extremely anxious to begin treatment, and so we agreed to meet again tonight."

"How about your housekeeper? Was she still in the house at the time of this meeting yesterday?"

"No, she leaves at 17:00 each day."

"Go on."

"They came again this evening at 18:30, and it was just the same as last night. I had an hour's session with the gentleman while the secretary waited outside. Mr. Blessington was again out for his evening walk. After the hour was up, the two of them left. Shortly after that, Mr. Blessington came back from his daily stroll. Almost immediately he burst into my study, nearly insane with fear asking who had been in his room. I told him no one had been in his room. He insisted it was so, and demanded that I come up to his room to see the evidence. I had to admit that there were large, wet footprints on the carpet of his room. The intruder had come from outside, obviously, where it is still quite wet from today's rain. The footprints that were clearly neither mine nor Mr. Blessington's, they were much too large. I surmised they only could have been made by the secretary, although why, I don't know. Nothing in the room had been disturbed or stolen. I explained to Mr. Blessington that maybe the foreigner didn't understand that he had intruded on Mr. Blessington's privacy, and that I would explain that it was inappropriate at the next appointment. But nothing could console him. He collapsed, sobbing, completely unable to speak. When he finally regained some composure, he asked me to consult you. I felt it was a good idea, rather than going to the police as it seems a strange matter that might be better handled outside of official channels."

"When is the next foreign gentleman's appointment?" asked Sherlock.

"He has not scheduled one yet, but he did say he wanted to schedule another one soon."

"Aha! And is there any possibility that Mr. Blessington is himself a foreigner or related to these gentlemen in any way?"

"No, it does not appear that way to me. He seems as English as any of us. But if you will come and see him, you may judge for yourself," Dr. Trevelyan suggested hopefully.

"Yes, I think we should leave as soon as possible," said Sherlock.

"Oh thank you so much!" exclaimed the psychiatrist. "I brought my car and I am happy to take you to my home."

As we reached for our coats, Sherlock shot me a look of warning.

I muttered, "We're going in the car, I'll be _fine_." I handed him his scarf.

He rolled his eyes, smiled, and bounded down the stairs leaving me and Dr. Trevelyan in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So after posting chapter 2 last night, it occurred to me that I may have some serious problems with the believability of this story. Such an arrangement between Blessington and Trevelyan would be possible here in the States, but with the NHS in England, I'm not so sure. Would any UK readers care to comment? I apologize for my ignorance, and I hope the story is still enjoyable, even if there are factual problems.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 3

It was a 15 minute drive in Dr. Trevelyan's Lexus to his home. It was a large, clearly expensive house in a tony neighborhood of London where many wealthy professionals live. The doctor let us into the large entrance hall and gestured toward the stairs.

"Mr. Blessington's rooms are on the first floor," he said, and we began to climb the stairs. Suddenly, however, all the lights in the entrance and stairwell went out.

A frightened voice called, "I have a gun and I will shoot you if you come any closer!"

"Mr. Blessington! You really are delusional! You must let me help you!" called Dr. Trevelyan.

"Doctor?" questioned the voice. "Oh, it is you. But who is with you?"

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. Watson. They are here due to your request!"

There was a pause, and the lights came back on.

"Right, right. Please come up. I am sorry, but I can't be too careful."

We then got our first good look at this mysterious Mr. Blessington, a man who looked around sixty or so. It was quite apparent to any observer that he was a nervous wreck. He was extremely pale, and seemed to be trembling. He had the look of someone who had lost a great deal of weight in a short period of time, with loose skin hanging in folds along his cheeks and neck. His thinning hair was sticking up at all angles, as if he had been running his hands nervously over his head. His threat of the gun was genuine, he put it in his pocket as we came up the stairs. I was glad to see it out of his shaky hands.

"Good evening Mr. Holmes," he said as we approached; "Thank you so much for coming. We need your advice desperately. Did Dr. Trevelyan tell you about the burglar in my rooms?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, "He did. Who are those two men and why are they after you?"

Mr. Blessington turned from pale to a sickly grey color. For a moment, it seemed he didn't know what to say. He licked his lips nervously and said, "I don't know. How could I know?"

Sherlock looked skeptical.

"Please, come to my room and you will see for yourself." We followed Mr. Blessington to his large and luxuriously furnished bedroom. There was a large, old fashioned safe standing at the foot of the king-sized bed. It was about four feet tall and three feet wide. Mr. Blessington pointed at it.

"You see that safe? That safe is my entire life savings. I have had to work very hard for everything I have, and every penny I've saved is in there. I don't trust bankers. Who does after what they did to our economy? My only investment has been in Dr. Trevelyan. I'm sure he told you of it. So all my money, everything I have in the world is in that safe. _That_ is why I am so upset that a stranger has forced himself into my room."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't help you if you lie to me."

"But I have told you the truth!"

Sherlock turned to the doctor, "Good-night Dr. Trevelyan." He marched out of the room and started down the stairs, I followed.

Mr. Blessington called after him, "But I need your advice, Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock paused on the stairs and called back, "My advice, Mr. Blessington, is to tell the truth!"

There was no response, so Sherlock resumed his march to the front door, opened it, and left with me behind him.

We began walking in the direction of Baker street, and I could tell Sherlock was very irritated. After a few blocks of silence he abruptly stopped with an annoyed huff.

"I'm sorry to have made you come on this silly excursion, John. It's really too bad, because it is an interesting case." As he was speaking he was unwinding his scarf, and then he put it on me.

"There you go," he said with a smile after he was done, "I don't want you to be miserable on my account. If we can't get a cab it's a 30 minute walk back home. Although, it's not as much my fault as Blessington's." He scowled and resumed walking.

"So what do you think is going on?" I asked.

"Well, it's pretty clear that the mysterious foreign patient and his 'secretary' are after Blessington. These evening appointments are an attempt to either case Blessington's home or to make a direct attack on him. The doctor is kept busy with his 'patient' while the muscle does his work. It's difficult to say exactly what they are attempting to do. During both appointments Blessington was out of the house. Is that coincidence or planning on their part? Obviously, burglary is NOT the motive here, or they would have accomplished it the first evening. Blessington is clearly frightened, not for his money, but for his life. A man doesn't make enemies like that without knowing who they are and why."

We looked at each other and smiled.

"Therefore," Sherlock continued, "I am convinced that Blessington knows who those men are, and for some reason, he does not want to explain why they are trying to get at him. He may quickly change his mind about confiding in me though. I find it a bit ominous that no further 'appointments' have been scheduled with the psychiatrist."

We walked on in silence for while I turned over the facts of the case in my mind.

"Sherlock," I said after a bit, "Is it possible that Dr. Trevelyan is making up the story of the foreign patient in order to cover up the fact that he is the so-called burglar? After all, he did seem to be a bit sketchy on the details about the man and his secretary. And, quite frankly, his dealings with them are not the height of professionalism."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes, that occurred to me, but the carpet in Mr. Blessington's room proved that the hulking secretary is not Dr. Trevelyan or Blessington. Those footprints, I'm sure you must have noticed, could not have been made by either of those men. TAXI!"

We popped into the cab which had come down the street without my noticing. Even though we were halfway home I was thankful for the relative warmth of the car.

"I will give credit to Blessington for one spark of brilliance," Sherlock said as we settled into the car.

"What's that?"

"His genius idea ten years ago of securing a good doctor as a constant companion. Clearly, it was the best idea he ever had."

"It didn't work out so badly for the doctor, either," I pointed out, "if he can afford a Lexus on twenty-five percent of his salary."

"Yes, well, it might all come crashing down now. I have a feeling we will be hearing from one or both of them in the morning."

In a few minutes we were back in our flat and after some tea I went to bed.

Next thing I knew, Sherlock was shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes to see him in his blue dressing gown.

"What's going on?" I asked as I looked at the clock. It was 7:30.

"The Blessington-Trevelyan case."

"What's happened?"

Sherlock showed me his phone. It was displaying a text:

_For Gods sake please come PT_

"Right," I said jumping out of bed. Sherlock left.

I dressed as quickly as I could and met Sherlock downstairs. I had thrown on the first pair of jeans and jumper that had come to hand, but Sherlock looked as immaculate as ever_. How does he do it?_ I wondered with a twinge of jealousy. His curls were slightly more disorganized than usual, but other than that one could never guess that he had put himself together in less than five minutes.

But, there was no time to ponder the mysteries of Sherlock as we hurtled via cab as quickly as we could through London's morning traffic.

"I texted him back that we are on our way, but I haven't received a response." Sherlock informed me in the cab.

"Should we call the police... Lestrade?"

Sherlock bit his lip, considering. "No, I'm sure if it were that serious Dr. Trevelyan will have called the police himself."

As the cab pulled up to the house, the frantic figure of the doctor came running out, his hands pressed on either side of his face.

"What's happened?" asked Sherlock urgently.

"Blessington committed suicide!"

Sherlock did not look surprised, but gave a low whistle.

Dr. Trevelyan continued, "He hanged himself sometime during the night."

I saw all the color drain from Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth and wordlessly mouthed, "Hanged?"

He drew a deep, shuddering breath and bent over as if he had been kicked or was going to vomit.

"Sherlock! Are you alright?"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Apologies for a short chapter. I wanted to get another chapter posted today. I'll try to get another one posted tomorrow. This is turning into a longer story than I thought it would be!

The Swinging Snitch - 4

_"What's happened?" asked Sherlock urgently._

_"Blessington committed suicide!"_

_Sherlock did not look surprised, but gave a low whistle._

_Dr. Trevelyan continued, "He hanged himself sometime during the night."_

_I saw all the color drain from Sherlock's face. He opened his mouth and wordlessly mouthed, "Hanged?" _

_He drew a deep, shuddering breath and bent over as if he had been kicked or was going to vomit._

_"Sherlock! Are you alright?"_

I hurried over to Sherlock, but by the time I got to him he was standing upright again, his face completely impassive.

"I'm fine," he said with complete composure, "I've just never had a client kill themselves after consulting me. It's a bit of a blow." He gave a wry smile.

"But Sherlock - " I started to protest.

"Hush!" he exclaimed with impatience. "Be quiet, both of you! I need to think for a minute."

I reluctantly stepped back as he turned away, his head bowed to his chest.

After a few moments he turned to Dr. Trevelyan. "Have you called the police?"

"No, I really don't know what to do."

"That's fine. The police will need to be called. However, with your permission, if you feel comfortable, I would like to examine...everything before they get here. The police sometimes miss little things that are very important and they might actually destroy valuable clues unknowingly. Have you yourself done anything to the body?"

"No, once I found him, I contacted you."

"Very good. Is your housekeeper here?"

"No, she arrives at 9:00."

"Excellent! Please call her and tell her not to come. Give her the day off...with pay." Sherlock smiled. "It will be on me, if necessary."

"No, that's fine, I'm happy to pay her," said Dr. Trevelyan.

"Good. I will start outside, and then proceed inside when I am ready. In the meantime, both of you please remain outside, right here until I tell you otherwise."

Sherlock then proceeded to examine all the windows and doors outside the house. Once he came back around the house again to the front he looked fairly pleased.

"Right. Let's go inside, but step carefully behind me, and stay in the entryway unless I say otherwise."

We followed Sherlock into the entryway where he directed us to stand and avoid moving if at all possible.

"I want to check all the windows and doors of the ground floor, and then proceed up the stairs. I promise that I will not actually disturb anything. I will leave it all in pristine condition for the police to handle as they wish."

With those words, Sherlock was off again. I tried to say some words of comfort to Dr. Trevelyan, but it was difficult. I couldn't help but wonder if Blessington had left a will and if the psychiatrist would inherit anything from him. At the very least, I supposed, he could keep all of his income now.

After what seemed like a long time, but was probably less than 30 minutes, Sherlock returned to the entry hall. He then proceeded to examine the carpeted stairs with great care, carefully stepping in what appeared to be in an odd pattern, but I had been with him on enough cases to know that he was avoiding stepping on any footprints of interest. He took a number of photographs with his phone.

When he eventually reached the top of the stairs he called down to us. "Go ahead and come up, but please keep to the extreme left or right of the steps so you do not obliterate anything."

The doctor and I ascended the stairs where Sherlock was waiting for us.

"Now doctor," said Sherlock, "Please tell me, with all the detail you can remember, exactly what happened last night from the time we left until you found Mr. Blessington this morning."

"Well, I told Mr. Blessington that he really should consider taking a sedative for his nerves. He violently refused and told me to leave his rooms. So I went downstairs and went to bed. I did not do anything out of my normal routine. I got up at my usual time of 6:30 and dressed as usual. I then made myself my usual light breakfast. The housekeeper comes in later and makes Mr. Blessington his breakfast. After that, I made the morning tea, which I take up to Mr. Blessington daily between 7:00 and 7:30. I am not sure of the exact time it was this morning, but it was during that time. I knocked on his door and got no response. After knocking and calling some more I tried the handle, although he usually keeps it locked. It was unlocked, and I let myself in and found...well, you will see for yourself." Dr. Trevelyan passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "After that, the only thing I could think of was to beg you to come over."

Sherlock nodded. "And you did not hear any unusual noises during the night?"

"No, nothing at all, however, as you can see, our bedrooms are quite some distance away from each other."

"No indication that anyone else might have been moving around the house during the night?"

"Nothing that I noticed."

"Are you a deep sleeper doctor?"

"No, I am generally a light sleeper, but as I was upset last night, I did take a mild sedative to calm my nerves."

"Very well. I am now going to examine the door, and then go into Mr. Blessington's bedroom. Please do not follow me until I give the all clear."

Sherlock then went over the door which Dr. Trevelyan had left halfway open. He carefully examined it and the handle before going into the bedroom. From where we stood in the hallway, we could hear him moving about the bedroom but could not see what he was doing. After about twenty minutes he called for us to join him.

The sight was a disturbing one. Mr. Blessington was hanging by a length of rope attached to a large hook in the ceiling. He was dressed in a pajama top and bottoms. I won't describe the body beyond that, as it is not a memory on which I want to dwell. It wasn't pleasant, to say the least.

"John, can you tell me how long he's been dead?"

"Approximately six hours I would say, judging by the rigidity of the muscles." I said as I felt along the body.

I glanced over at Sherlock, and I again sensed that something was wrong. He was perspiring, which I had never seen him do except after some sort of vigorous exercise. And he was pale, even by his standards. His face looked a little unnaturally rigid. I was at a loss, as we had seen plenty of gruesome sights, and this is a man who micro-waved eyeballs!

"Sherlock - " I began.

"Right. I have seen all that I need to see. Dr. Trevelyan, it is time you called the police. The regular emergency number will do. We will wait with you for them to arrive. Maybe downstairs?" Sherlock gestured toward the door.

We left the bedroom and went to Dr. Trevelyan's sitting room. The doctor excused himself to make his phone call and while he did that Sherlock pulled out his phone.

"I'm going to contact Lestrade. I think he is going to want to know about this case."

"Why should he care about a paranoid eccentric committing suicide?"

"Blessington didn't commit suicide John. He was murdered. It was a very carefully planned, cold-blooded murder." Sherlock finished dialing and held up his hand to keep me from asking any further questions.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read up to this point. Special shout-out to Ethelinda's Window for the helpful comments.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 5

_"I'm going to contact Lestrade. I think he is going to want to know about this case."_

_"Why should he care about a paranoid eccentric committing suicide?"_

_"Blessington didn't commit suicide John. He was murdered. It was a very carefully planned, cold-blooded murder." Sherlock finished dialing and held up his hand to keep me from asking any further questions._

"Hello? May I speak to Inspector Lestrade, please? Tell him it's Sherlock Holmes, and it's urgent. Thank you." After a pause: "Hello? It's me. I'm here at the home of a client of mine who's just been murdered. The other resident of the house has just called it in. (pause) I wanted to alert you because if the murderers are who I think they are, you are going to have to move fast to have any hope of catching them. (pause) I strongly suspect the victim has a criminal record. Once you get a positive ID on him, you will probably know who the suspects are. (pause) I'll wait here for you, but you better get here quick before the regulars destroy all the evidence." Sherlock held the phone away from his ear while loud, angry noises came out of it. "Keep your hair on," Sherlock said after the noise stopped. "I've taken photos and observed everything. It'll be fine." There were more angry noises from the phone. "No of course I didn't touch anything, well, Dr. Watson touched the body to give me an approximate time of death."

I shot Sherlock a dirty look.

"OK, I'll text you the address and we'll wait for you. Thanks." Sherlock hung up. "Lestrade said he'd be here as soon as he could."

"Great! Is he going to arrest me for tampering with the evidence?"

"Doubtful. He'd arrest me before he would you."

"So what makes you think Blessington was murdered?"

"I don't think Blessington was murdered, John. I know he was."

"Fine! Care to explain?"

"I'll be happy to do so, but I'm going to wait for Lestrade so I only have to do it once."

Dr. Trevelyan rejoined us in the sitting room and informed us that the police were on their way so we moved back to the entrance hall to wait for them. It didn't take long. When they arrived, Sherlock advised them that Lestrade was on his way and not to take significant action until he got there.

As the officers walked upstairs with Dr. Trevelyan, Sherlock shot me a significant look. "Glad I took those pictures," he said with a mixture of amusement and disgust.

The officers were still in Blessington's bedroom when Lestrade arrived with Sergeant Donovan. After greetings were exchanged Sherlock asked where the forensics team was.

Lestrade said, "I told Anderson to get ready, but to wait until I call to come over. I wanted to hear your story before taking action."

Sherlock sighed. "OK, upstairs?"

We all nodded and proceeded up the stairs, I kept to the extreme right, as I had earlier.

Sherlock said, "Don't bother, John, they're hopelessly obliterated now."

Lestrade grimaced, but said nothing.

We assembled in the bedroom where Dr. Trevelyan was still speaking with the responding officers. As soon as Lestrade saw Blessington's body he stopped in shocked amazement.

"Hanging? Sherlock! He's hanged himself! Who commits murder by hanging?"

"That's what we need to find out!"

"Sherlock - " Lestrade started to protest.

Sherlock flushed with anger. "There were three strangers in this house last night. I have no doubt that two of them were Dr. Trevelyan's foreign patient and his secretary. The other one was a small, agile man, other than that I don't know anything about him. Those three men plotted and then committed this murder. I am more than happy to show you the evidence if you would bother to listen."

I had never seen Sherlock look so heated before. His anger is usually icy, rather than hot. I couldn't help thinking again that this case was affecting him in an odd way.

Lestrade rather coldly replied, "Remember Sherlock, you haven't told me anything yet. If you would care to explain everything I'm more than happy to listen."

Sherlock took a deep breath and briefly told Lestrade everything up to that point. Once that was done he pointed to Blessington's body.

"If you will look closely, you can see rope burns around his wrists and ankles. He was bound, and then unbound after the execution. I am fairly confident that after his body is cut down and his face...is examined you will find signs that he was gagged as well."

Now that Sherlock had pointed it out, I could clearly see the angry red marks around Blessington's wrists and ankles.

Lestrade said, "Why bother to do a sloppy job of making it look like a suicide if they know we will find out the truth?"

Sherlock replied, "Every minute they fool the police is another minute they have to make their escape."

Dr. Trevelyan spoke in a quavering voice, "But how did they get in? All the windows and doors were locked."

"They were very clever, and quite determined. Follow me downstairs," said Sherlock.

We gathered again in the entrance hall. Sherlock pointed to a large, double hung window.

"That was the primary point of entry and exit."

"How?" asked Dr. Trevelyan. "It was locked when we went to bed last night, and it is still locked now!"

Sherlock smiled. "Last night while you were with your 'patient' the secretary not only went up to Blessington's room, but he let in the third conspirator, the small man, through this window. The window was then re-locked. The small man hid in the house until the two of you went to bed. Once you were safely asleep, the small man returned to this window and let the other two back in. After the deed was done, the other two exited via this window, and the small man locked it behind them. There are traces of footprints on the windowsill, if anyone would like to take a look."

We each peered at the sill, and sure enough, there were smudges of mud on it.

Lestrade asked sharply, "So where is the small man now?"

"Ah, he exited another way. Follow me!" Sherlock strode off in the direction of the kitchen, and stopped in front of a door.

"The cellar?" questioned Dr. Trevelyan.

"Yes."

"But how?"

"Dr. Trevelyan, surely you know your own house better than that! There is a small window, just at ground level. It was a bit of a squeeze, even for the small man, but it really was quite easy. If you go outside, you can see where he dragged his body along the ground as he climbed out, and the window is still unlocked, as he could not lock it behind him."

As Sherlock was speaking we were descending the stairs into the cellar. Sherlock pointed up at the small window near the top of the wall, which was just at ground level. The lock was clearly unlatched.

"You may or may not find fingerprints on it. I have the feeling that these gentlemen were not overly concerned about the issue."

Dr. Trevelyan was clearly shaken. "So he was here in the house the whole time?"

"Yes, he was here hiding while Dr. Watson and I visited. You know, doctor, the sedative you took last night may very well have saved your life. If you had discovered the criminals, they would not have hesitated to kill you. In fact, you should count yourself lucky they didn't do it out of an abundance of caution."

For a moment, I thought the poor psychiatrist might faint, but he pulled himself together and asked, "Who did this? Who were they?"

Sherlock looked at Lestrade. "Cut the body down, run his prints. I think that will probably provide the answers."

Lestrade nodded and then said, "But what was the purpose of the psychiatric appointments?"

Sherlock sighed. "It got them into the house. The first appointment, I believe, was merely to case the place. However, I suspect that if Blessington had been home, they might have just killed him then. The second time it was to get the confederate inside and to make a final check for their planned execution. They might have tested out the strength of that hook in Blessington's ceiling that they used to run the noose through. Dr. Trevelyan, was there a large chandelier that used to hang there?"

"Yes, a very old-fashioned heavy thing that Mr. Blessington had removed after we moved in."

Sherlock shrugged. "Made it easy for them, then." He took a deep breath. "Well, I believe I'm done here. Dr. Trevelyan, I think you can relax. If the men didn't bother to kill you last night, I doubt you need worry for the future. Actually, I suspect the murderers are already out of the country. Lestrade, please let me know as soon as you get a make on Blessington. I would like to see the loose ends tied up, if possible. However, I'm letting you know right now that I'm not inclined to pursue these men myself."

Lestrade quirked an eyebrow up in surprise then asked, "But Sherlock, why on earth would they hang Blessington?"

"That I do intend to find out, if at all possible," Sherlock replied. "You can best help me with that by providing me with Blessington's true name. Goodbye Dr. Trevelyan, call me if you need anything. Lestrade, thanks and please keep me up to date."

I said my goodbyes and followed Sherlock back up the cellar stairs and out of the house. Sherlock was striding quickly toward the street, I had to jog to keep up with him. Just as he reached the front shrubbery, he stopped and violently threw up into the bushes.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Well, your nice reviews have given me additional energy to keep going! Thanks for the support of this story! :-)

Apologies that it's running longer than I ever anticipated! This is not the final chapter...

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 6

_I said my goodbyes and followed Sherlock back up the cellar stairs and out of the house. Sherlock was striding quickly toward the street, I had to jog to keep up with him. Just as he reached the front shrubbery, he stopped and violently threw up into the bushes._

I stood by Sherlock while his body convulsed over and over again, ready to catch him if need be. When it was finally over he straightened up and took several gasping breaths.

"All done?"

He nodded.

"Do you need to sit down?"

He shook his head then said, "No, I want to get as far away from this place as possible before Anderson gets here." He glanced over at the house. "I hope no one saw that."

"I think they're busy. Here," I linked one of my arms through his, "let's go." I started walking toward the street. After a few steps he extricated himself from me.

"I'll be fine. I can walk," he said in a firm voice.

"OK, just take it easy."

"I'm not a child, John," he snapped.

"I know, I just don't want you going arse over tit!" I shot back.

We walked on in silence. I noticed that more and more police cars were headed to Dr. Trevelyan's house. We had left just in time, a few minutes more and Sherlock would have been heaving in front of a dozen police personnel.

I was burning with curiosity as to what on earth was wrong with Sherlock, but for some reason I was reluctant to just ask him. Maybe because he had put his remote, impassive face on and was acting so brusquely with me. I figured maybe it would be better to wait and ask him after we got home where he was more comfortable.

Sherlock hailed a cab and after we settled in I noticed he had closed his eyes and steepled his fingers under his chin in his typical posture of deep thought. That usually meant that conversation was out of the question.

After we arrived back in Baker street Sherlock immediately went to the bathroom where I heard running water and the sound of vigorous tooth-brushing. After a few minutes he re-emerged and grabbed his laptop.

"Hang on," I said, "I have to check you out."

"What?"

"I have to make sure you are alright."

"Of course I'm alright."

I looked at him incredulously. "You most certainly are not! People who heave their guts out are not _alright_."

"I just got a little queasy, that's all."

"So you won't mind if I just verify that you aren't sick?"

Sherlock's mouth tightened into a thin line. "This is completely unnecessary, but if you promise to leave me alone afterward, I will let you examine me."

I paused, then said, "Agreed. I'll just get my bag."

Before I had left the room he had already started tapping on his computer. When I got back he allowed me check his vitals, feel the glands along his neck, and check his throat for any sign of infection. All during the check, however, he never stopped working, or attempting to work anyway. I suppose it's a bit difficult to type on a keyboard while a tongue depressor is halfway down your throat.

"You seem fine," I finally said.

"I told you so. Now can I get back to work?"

"Sherlock, why..."

"You promised to leave me alone."

I sighed. Of course, he had me there. I did promise.

"Alright. So what do we do now?"

"Hopefully Lestrade will get back to me on Blessington's true identity. I'm convinced that he isn't who he pretended to be. In the meantime, I'm pursuing my own line of inquiry."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not at the moment. It might be hours before they get a positive ID on Blessington, and it might take me hours to find what I'm looking for. You may as well go into work."

I looked at him skeptically. Sherlock rolled his eyes at me and said, "I promise I won't try to apprehend the criminals if I do find out who they are. This is one case I'm happy to let the police handle, successfully or not. I just want to satisfy my own curiosity."

"OK, well I'm late, but I'm sure Sarah would prefer me to come rather than not. So I'll be going. I don't know how late I'll be, I might stay late to make up for coming in late. But promise me you'll call if anything happens?"

Sherlock nodded, not looking up from the laptop screen.

I went ahead and went to work. I spent the day wondering what was going on with the case, and why Sherlock had seemed to be so deeply affected by it. I didn't think the appearance of Blessington's body was _that _bad, especially for someone who routinely experimented with bodies the way Sherlock did. If anyone else threw up at the sight, I wouldn't be that surprised, but it seemed very odd for Sherlock to do it. Was it just because we had spoken to him a few hours before his death? Was Sherlock feeling guilt that he hadn't been able to save him? I supposed it could be possible, but that wasn't a satisfying explanation. Sherlock wasn't acting as if he felt any guilt. But then, what form would guilt take in a personality like Sherlock's? My mind continued worrying at the problem, turning around in useless circles. _I need more data_, I thought to myself, then smiled, recognizing one of Sherlock's common expressions. I shook my head and refocused my mind on my own work.

A few hours into my shift I got a text: _Not enough info on internet - going to Yard - SH_

I felt briefly annoyed, then realized I was being silly. Sherlock was certainly not going to be in danger at Scotland Yard. I didn't need to be there just because Sherlock was going through old case files looking for whatever it was that he was looking for.

A few hours after that I got another text: _Blessington ID confirmed - suspicions correct - SH_

I texted back: _what now? JW_

_Nothing - they wont get caught - youre not needed - SH_

I knew it was ridiculous to get hurt feelings over a text, but the bluntness still stung. I was looking at the words trying to think of a reply that wouldn't seem pathetic when another message came through:

_I mean SY is handling it - we re out of it - SH_

I couldn't help it, I smiled. And then a third message came through:

_Will explain all when u get back -SH_

I got back a few hours later than the end of my normal shift. Since the case had been apparently wrapped up, I figured I should make up for the time I had missed in the morning. I found Sherlock in his dressing gown laying across the couch. He didn't acknowledge my arrival. I sat down in my chair and waited. And waited.

"Well," I finally said, "I'm home. Please tell me what happened with the case."

Sherlock seemed to come back from far away. "Oh, right." He sounded bored. "It was pretty much as I thought. Blessington's real name was Charles Sutton. 'Sutton the Snitch' he was called during the court case. He worked for the Russian Mafia in this country, then turned witness against them. His testimony convicted four Russian mobsters who were imprisoned here for a while, then deported back to Russia." Sherlock smiled grimly. "It was felt by certain members of our government that they would probably suffer more for their crimes in their home country than they would here. So they were shipped back and thrown into prison in Russia."

Sherlock sat up and started going through a stack of papers on the coffee table. "Let's see, the four men convicted were Vyacheslav Ivankov, Viktor Averin, Tariel Oniani, and Sergei Mikhailov. Remember how Dr. Trevelyan said that Blessington got really upset awhile back? Look at this."

Sherlock handed me a piece of paper. It was a printout of a news story about a mass prison break in Russia. Apparently, a gang of mobsters broke _into _a prison, freeing a bunch of Russian Mafia figures. Sherlock had highlighted three of the names of the escaped prisoners.

"Ivankov, Averin, and Oniani. Where is the fourth?"

Sherlock handed me another piece of paper. "I had to fax the Russian prison from Scotland Yard today for this."

It was a piece of paper with Russian writing on it, but a translation was attached. It was part of the prison record of Sergei Mikhailov. The report was of his suicide, he hanged himself in his cell. I looked over at Sherlock, horrified.

Sherlock nodded. "Vengeance. They made sure Sutton came to the same end as Mikhailov did." Sherlock reclined back on the couch and closed his eyes.

"Is Lestrade tracking them?"

"He's trying. I doubt he'll be successful. I'm sure they have already left the country, and they will disappear into the Russian underworld."

I looked over at Sherlock laying on the couch. He had one hand over his eyes. I thought I could see it trembling slightly.

"Sherlock - "

"Leave me alone, John."

"But Sherlock - "

"Please."

I sighed and got up to make tea. After it was made I offered him a mug. He did not respond. In fact, he refused to speak the rest of the evening. I finally gave up and went to bed.

I vowed to try again in the morning.

(to be continued)


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Thanks to all of you who have read up to this point. It'll probably be a few more chapters more before I finish.

This particular chapter insisted on being written RIGHT NOW! So here it is...

This turned into a much longer project than I had originally anticipated! Anyway, from this point on the plot is my invention. The characters don't belong to me, though. This was done for love, not money.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 7

_"Sherlock - "_

_"Leave me alone, John."_

_"But Sherlock - "_

_"Please."_

_I sighed and got up to make tea. After it was made I offered him a mug. He did not respond. In fact, he refused to speak the rest of the evening. I finally gave up and went to bed._

_I vowed to try again in the morning._

I came downstairs the next morning to find that Sherlock had retired to his bedroom. Rather than knock him up, if he was sleeping, I decided trying to talk to him could wait until I got back home in the evening.

All day long at the surgery I kept trying to figure out what about this case could have affected him so deeply. I also kept trying to plan how I was going to approach him. I have to admit that I didn't come up with any good ideas on either issue.

When I got home Sherlock was on the couch again, still in his dressing gown over the t-shirt and pajama pants he had worn the previous evening. I wondered if he had even dressed at all.

"Hi Sherlock."

No response.

"Would you like tea? I'm going to make a pot."

Silence.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

"Are you angry at me for some reason?"

Zilch.

I sighed and made the pot of tea. I placed a mug on the coffee table next to Sherlock. He didn't move or acknowledge my presence in any way. I started to get mad. What had I done to deserve this treatment?

"I'm going out, I'll see you in the morning."

I got my coat and hat and left, texting Sarah as I walked out. I spent the night at her place.

In the morning I sent Sherlock a text: _Going to work - will see you this evening. JW_

I didn't get a response all day.

I came home after work to find Sherlock still on the couch, still in his dressing gown and pajamas. As near as I could tell, it looked like he hadn't moved for the last twenty-four hours. Had he had anything to eat or drink? I had no idea. The mug of tea I had made the night before was still sitting there, untouched. I didn't say anything and he didn't acknowledge my arrival. I made another pot of tea and set another mug beside him.

I sat down in my chair and asked, "Dinner?"

No response.

I sighed. "Sherlock, are you ever going to speak to me again?"

That got a response. He looked at me, then reached for the new mug of tea. He took a sip, sighed and said, "I told you when me met, sometimes I don't speak for days. You seemed ok with it then."

I said, "Yes, when you were going to be my flatmate. I had no problem with that. But you're not just my flatmate anymore, haven't been for a long time. So, yes, it does bother me when a _friend_ won't speak to me for days."

He shrugged. "This has nothing to do with you."

"How am I to know that if you won't talk to me?"

"I'm sorry John. I didn't mean to hurt you. I'll be alright, I just need a few days to myself."

"A few days without eating, drinking or bathing?"

His eyes flashed. "If that's the way I want it, yes. It's no concern of yours."

I got up from the chair. "Fine, put yourself in the hospital if that's the way you want it. I won't interfere." I went into the kitchen and called back, "I'm going to have dinner, you are welcome to join me if you change your mind."

It didn't work. After I ate some leftover curry I gave up and went to my room. I paced up and down for awhile, until I realized he could probably hear me. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I was upset, so I went to bed and quietly fumed there. I was concerned and angry. Concerned for my friend, and also angry that he was shutting me out of whatever it was that was bothering him. I was also frustrated with myself for not being able to figure out a way to get to him. Eventually I fell asleep, still without any ideas on how to help.

Sometime during the night I woke up. I had the idea that some sort of noise had awakened me, but I didn't know what. I opened the door and I heard what sounded like Sherlock muttering in the sitting room. I could see that the lights were still on. I wondered if he was on the phone or something. I started down the stairs, because if he was speaking with someone, I wanted to know who it was. As I got closer, it became clear to me that what I was hearing was not speech, but a series of what sounded like choking sounds. Was he having a seizure from dehydration? I hurried into the sitting room to check on him.

He was laying on the couch, just as I had left him, but his eyes were closed. I could see his eyeballs rolling around in REM sleep. He was clearly having a nightmare, because his body shuddered with powerful sobs. No tears were coming from his eyes, but his whole body shook with grief, in odd jerking motions caused by sleep paralysis.

My first impulse was to rush to him, wake him up and comfort him. My heart clenched in my chest just to look at him suffering that way. But the thought of how he might react stopped me. As I stood there wondering what to do he uttered just one coherent word:

"Mummy."

I turned and hurried back to my room as quietly as I could. I had cradled dying men on the battlefield while they called for their mothers, but that was an entirely different thing. Sherlock was not dying (not yet at least) and certainly would not appreciate someone witnessing him in such a vulnerable state.

I went back to bed and pondered some more on what to do. Clearly, Sherlock was suffering some deep torment. Something that made him call for his mother. But what it could be I couldn't guess. I tried to remember if Sherlock had ever mentioned his mother. I didn't think he had. Then I remembered that first night, the night Sherlock and I caught the cabbie serial killer. Mycroft had met us at the scene where I witnessed their verbal jousting for the first time. Mycroft had chided Sherlock's behavior saying, "You know how it always upset Mummy." Past tense. And Sherlock had replied, "I, _I_ upset her?" Was she dead? It was possible, but I really didn't know. Sherlock and I didn't talk much about our families.

If she were alive, did Sherlock want her? Could she help? I wondered if I should contact Mycroft. I still had his number in my cell phone. But somehow the idea of bringing Mycroft into this was not appealing. I decided that things would have to get worse before I went to Mycroft for help.

It took awhile, but I finally was able to go back to sleep.

The next morning I was coming down the stairs and I heard Sherlock talking to someone. He didn't sound happy. As I got closer, I heard the another voice: Mycroft. I almost tripped and fell down the stairs. Was he some kind of bizarre genie and my mind had summoned him from his lamp?

I heard Mycroft say, "You're being very selfish."

Sherlock replied with extreme bitterness, "You have no right, Mycroft, _no right_ to say that to me!"

I heard Mycroft sigh and then say with more gentleness than I ever imagined could be contained in that cold exterior, "Maybe not. But just remember, when you do this, it's more than just you that suffers."

I shook myself and continued down the stairs. I hadn't intended to eavesdrop and so I wanted to make my presence known. And in this case, whatever my other problems were with Mycroft, I was behind him one hundred percent right now and wanted to show my support.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Again, thanks to all the supporters of this story. I'm really nervous about this chapter, which will cover some important stuff. I'll have another A/N at the end to explain my reasoning for what happens here. Please read it before eviscerating me! :-)

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch – 8

_I heard Mycroft say, "You're being very selfish."_

_Sherlock replied with extreme bitterness, "You have no right, Mycroft, __no right__ to say that to me!"_

_I heard Mycroft sigh and then say with more gentleness than I ever imagined could be contained in that cold exterior, "Maybe not. But just remember, when you do this, it's more than just you that suffers."_

_I shook myself and continued down the stairs. I hadn't intended to eavesdrop and so I wanted to make my presence known. And in this case, whatever my other problems were with Mycroft, I was behind him one hundred percent right now and wanted to show my support._

I entered the sitting room to find Mycroft sitting in my chair, and Sherlock still sprawled along the couch.

"Good morning!" I announced, with slightly unnatural brightness.

"Good morning John," Mycroft leaned over and shook my hand, "nice to see you again."

"You too," I said, my mouth suddenly dry. I had no idea how to proceed.

"I just stopped by to offer congratulations on the Sutton case, and to offer a bit of an apology."

"Apology?" I didn't even bother to ask how he knew about the Sutton case, I was beginning to assume that Mycroft was an omniscient being.

"Yes, well, because of his...cooperation in the Russian Mafia trial, Sutton was given a new identity to protect him against just such an occurrence as this. Either he got careless or there is a leak in one of our departments. I suspect it is the latter, and I intend to find it and neutralize it." The look in Mycroft's eyes as he said this made my blood run cold.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance from the couch. I looked over at him and noticed that he seemed to be studying the ceiling with rather unnatural interest.

"May I give you a lift to work, Doctor?" asked Mycroft. "You are leaving soon, aren't you?"

"Er," I stammered. A ride with Mycroft was a somewhat alarming prospect, but I knew he wasn't exactly used to being refused. I had to admit that this would be a chance to express my concerns about Sherlock. But now that I was faced with the opportunity, I was wondering if it would be really fair to discuss Sherlock behind his back. I glanced over at Sherlock to see what his reaction was to this generous offer by Mycroft, but he was still captivated by the ceiling.

"Er, sure, thanks. I'll be ready in just a few minutes. Excuse me." I hurried off to the bathroom to finish getting ready for the day.

If the brothers spoke some more while I was getting ready, I didn't hear what they said. I came back out to the sitting room and announced I was ready.

"Excellent!" smiled Mycroft as he rose to his feet. He walked over to Sherlock on the couch and looked down at him.

"Take care, Sherlock," he said softly and seriously, then in a lighter tone he added, "I hope you keep the beard. I think it rather suits you." Mycroft tapped Sherlock lightly on the leg with his ever-present brolly and headed for the door. Sherlock made no outward sign of response.

"Er, goodbye Sherlock. I'll see you tonight?" I offered hopefully.

He made no move to acknowledge me, so I followed Mycroft out the door.

Outside, a familiar black car was waiting. Mycroft held the back door open for me, and followed me in. There was no sign of his female assistant, Anthea. Mycroft gave the address of my surgery to the driver, and then raised the barrier between the front and back seat. I was sealed in.

"Sherlock hasn't left the flat for a few days." Mycroft stated it as a fact, not a question. "Once the Sutton file came to me, I became concerned." He turned and looked at me.

"He hasn't told you." Again, stated as fact, not a question.

"I knew something was wrong, but he won't talk to me."

Mycroft gave me a long, searching stare.

_What god have I offended,_ I wondered,_ to cause me to have to undergo this all the time from __both __of them?_

I met his gaze and asked, "Is it fair to talk about Sherlock, like this, without him present?"

Mycroft smiled. "Before you came downstairs, I told Sherlock that you needed to know. He didn't disagree. Anyway, he can't put an embargo on me. She was my mother too."

At those words, my heart sank. I knew whatever it was, it wasn't going to be good.

Mycroft sighed, and actually looked sad. After a short pause, Mycroft continued, "Just before Sherlock turned 11 years old he came home from school one day and found our mother hanging in the kitchen from one of the beams. It was assumed to be a suicide at first, although there was no note and she had no apparent motive. No history of mental illness, our family didn't have any problems, financial or otherwise. A few days later, the coroner came back with a report that confirmed it was actually murder. The coroner found signs that her hands had been bound, then unbound after her death to make it look like suicide."

"Oh dear God!" I burst out. I was horrified. My mind flew back to Sherlock, looking at Sutton's body the other day, and what he must have felt.

Mycroft inclined his head, acknowledging my reaction, and continued, "She had no known enemies, nothing in her past history that could account for it. Our father and all other family members were confirmed to be elsewhere at the time of death. Nothing had been stolen from the house as far as we could tell, robbery was not the motive. There were no signs of a struggle. The case remains unsolved today."

"Mycroft! I'm so sorry!" I simply didn't know what else to say.

Mycroft smiled at me. "Thanks. Well, of course we each dealt with it in our own way. Dad drank himself to death, eventually. I had just started college, so I put myself on the path to where I am now, with all the access to information about what could possibly have happened. I've searched every government file in existence, but no record of her exists as a participant in any sort of covert criminal or governmental organization. And Sherlock...well, it was hardest for him, of course. He was so young, and of course...he found her." Mycroft paused. "I've seen the photos. And..." Mycroft went silent.

At this point, I couldn't have spoken if I wanted to.

After a pause, Mycroft continued, "I should have taken better care of him, especially after I noticed that Dad wasn't able...but I was young myself, still a teenager, and I didn't have time for a little brother. I didn't _make_ time." He sighed. "So, he did the best he could on his own. He closed himself off, protected himself. He blames himself for having an emotional reaction at the time instead of making careful observations of the crime scene. He's convinced that there must have been something that could have solved the mystery. He also resents me for having been away at school. He thinks that if I had been there before the police trampled over the scene that I could have solved it."

"He...he blames _you_?"

"Oh I'm a distant second to the blame he puts on himself."

"But...he was just a kid!"

"You know him. Do you think he sees that as an excuse?" Mycroft shook his head sadly.

I didn't know what to say. We were silent for awhile. Finally, Mycroft shook himself.

"Anyway, as I said, I got concerned when I noticed Sherlock had not left the flat for a few days, and then more concerned when I read the Sutton case. Hence, my visit today. I also need to tell you, John, that since you moved in with Sherlock he's had the longest stretch of time without one of these...episodes. And this one is by no means the worst, even though it had what has to be the strongest trigger. For that, I am deeply grateful to you."

"This isn't the worst?"

"Oh no. But I won't elaborate on that. That's Sherlock's business to tell, if he wants. Well, we've arrived at your workplace. Is there anything you want to ask before I go?"

"I...I can't think of anything." My mind was in a whirl.

"Ok then, you have my number, if you need anything." Mycroft smiled. "Just one last word. I've told you before...Sherlock and I have a difficult relationship. But I love my brother, and I want him to be happy. He doesn't believe me, but I hope you do."

"Er, yes. Thanks."

Mycroft got out of the car and held the door. He shook my hand.

"Goodbye John, and thank you."

"Thanks, goodbye."

And then the black car slid off, leaving me with my burden of knowledge.

A/N: So, I know I'm going against most of my fellow fan writers by killing Mummy Holmes. *Seena ducks tomatoes thrown in her direction* But please hear me out: many Sherlock Holmes scholars have speculated that Sherlock had *something* traumatic in his childhood that gave him the personality he has. One of the speculations that I feel has merit is the traumatic loss of his mother. The author of "The 7 Percent Solution" speculated that his parents did a murder/suicide (Mr. Holmes killed Mrs. Holmes over infidelity). I don't like that explanation because I don't believe a couple capable of producing Sherlock and Mycroft would do something that, well, banal and boring. So, I've invented a much more sinister mystery that I feel explains not just Sherlock's issues but also Mycroft's issues and the relationship between the brothers. Ok, I've got my flame-proof undies on...flame away! :-)

Oh yeah, and this is still not the end...


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Final chapter, but of course not really "the end." :-) Just the end of this particular episode in my larger project. As I mentioned before, the developments here, taking place in late October, will cause me to have to revise my other story "First Christmas" which was posted last month. I'll get to work on that and have it up as soon as I can. (This is what happens when you don't carefully plan out a large project ahead of time. Apologies!) Thanks to everyone who has supported this story! Let me know what you think of this final chapter.

The Adventure of the Swinging Snitch - 9

_Mycroft got out of the car and held the door. He shook my hand._

_"Goodbye John, and thank you."_

_"Thanks, goodbye."_

_And then the black car slid off, leaving me with my burden of knowledge._

I stumbled into the clinic, hardly even aware of my surroundings. In an odd way, I was sort of glad to have my whole shift in front of me, before I would face Sherlock again. It gave me time to process what I had learned.

My first reaction, I am sorry to say, was to wish I could unlearn it. Maybe this was a bad dream and I would wake up to find I still lived with the Sherlock I thought I knew: a brilliant, quirky man that did not have a terrible tragedy hidden in his past. As soon as I became aware of my thoughts I was ashamed of them. If _I_ wished it were a bad dream, what was it like for Sherlock and Mycroft? No, I had to accept reality for what it was: my friend and flatmate continued to suffer, would _always_ suffer (to some extent at least) from the murder of his mother.

As I went on through the day, I came to see how more and more of the puzzle pieces that made up what I knew about Sherlock started to form a coherent pattern. His need to keep his brain occupied, his almost desperate need to unravel puzzles, his former drug habit (alluded to but never openly discussed), his disinterest in forming attachments, calling himself a sociopath without a heart, his close but tense and tangled relationship with his brother - all of these elements began to fit together in a way that, for the first time, started to form a more complete picture for me.

I recalled the nervous collapse he experienced after the incident at the pool with Moriarty. Moriarty had forced him to see that he _did_ care. I remembered a trembling Sherlock, frantic over almost getting me killed, and then watching how quickly he rebuilt the walls of (seeming) indifference again - probably out of terror that he simply can't afford to care for, and lose, someone else who matters.

For awhile I felt a little hurt that Sherlock never told me the story, and that I had to hear it from Mycroft. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was silly and unfair. After all, I had never shared with Sherlock the darkest moments of my life, why would I expect him to do something I wasn't willing to do myself? Glass houses and all that.

As my shift began to wind down, I started wondering what, exactly, I was going to do with my new knowledge. I felt that I had gained some important insight, but what to do with it? What would Sherlock even tolerate coming from me? How was he going to treat me, now that he would know that I know?

My mind went back to the evening a few days ago, when we went out to Angelo's and then for our walk around the city. He had seemed so relaxed and happy, for him at least. We were almost like a couple of normal friends having fun together. Would things ever get back to that point? I tried to be optimistic. After all, Mycroft had said that Sherlock had been worse than this before. If he could recover from worse, he could recover from this, right?

It was time to leave. I was putting everything away and getting ready to leave when my phone beeped. I had a text. From Sherlock.

_Coming home?_

_Yes, want me to bring dinner? _- I texted back

_Sure_

_What you want? _

_Dont care_

Sherlock was communicating. I took it as a good sign.

I stopped at our favorite Indian place and then hurried back to the flat. As I climbed the stairs I couldn't help but wonder what I would find.

I entered the sitting room to find Sherlock pacing nervously. He had made a dramatic appearance change from this morning: he had obviously showered, shaved, and put on one of his trademark suits. I remembered Mycroft's parting words to Sherlock from that morning and smiled.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he replied.

I went into the kitchen and found another surprise, it was clean. The most dramatic difference was that the failed experiment of several nights ago had disappeared, although it had left what looked like several nasty chemical burns on the surface. I set the food down and started getting out dishes to serve it on.

Sherlock followed me into the kitchen, hands in pockets, and watched me getting stuff ready.

"Here," I said, "dish yourself up some food." I handed him a plate and a serving spoon. "You want to eat in here or you want to watch telly?"

He didn't reply, but started putting food on his plate. I handed him some cutlery, and then he sat down at the table.

I dished up my food and got the tea kettle going. Sherlock was busy rearranging the food on his plate. Once the tea was ready I sat down and started eating. I still didn't have the faintest idea what, if anything, I should say.

Sherlock finally broke the silence. "John, I know Mycroft told you about our mother. It's ok. You can ask me about it...if you want."

I paused. "Sherlock, I really don't know what to say, except that...I'm so sorry. I know that doesn't help, but I just want you to know that...if there's anything I can do, ever, just let me know."

Sherlock nodded, not looking at me. He was still fascinated with the food sculptures he was making on his plate.

"I'm sorry I never told you," he said finally.

"I understand why you didn't. It's ok. There's nothing to be sorry for."

He glanced at me briefly, then back to his plate. There was another pause.

"Sherlock."

He looked up.

"You are amazing."

He looked puzzled.

"The way you solved the Sutton case. Everything you did. You figured the whole thing out start to finish under those circumstances...If I hadn't seen you do it myself, I could hardly believe anyone could do it...Nobody but you could have done that." I shook my head.

Sherlock had gone back to studying his food.

I continued, "You are the most extraordinary person I know, and that's saying a lot considering I know Mycroft. But he has minions, and technology, and top secret clearance...You do it all on your own. Everything you accomplish...it's all you. It never ceases to impress me."

Sherlock looked back up at me, his cheeks slightly flushed. We looked at each other for a moment.

"Thanks, John," he said thoughtfully. "But you know...I don't do it all on my own. Not anymore."

He gave me a slight smile.

I smiled back.


End file.
